LITMIR.BIZ

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oh! oh!"

      "Good!" said D'Artagnan.

      "I smashed more than four thousand francs worth of glass—oh! oh! oh!"

      "Excellent."

      "Without counting a luster, which fell on my head and was broken into a thousand pieces—oh! oh! oh!"

      "Upon your head?" said D'Artagnan, holding his sides.

      "On the top."

      "But your head was broken, I suppose?"

      "No, since I tell you, on the contrary, my dear fellow, that it was the luster which was broken like glass, as it was, indeed."

      "Ah! the luster was glass, you say."

      "Venetian glass! a perfect curiosity, quite matchless, indeed, and weighed two hundred pounds."

      "And which fell upon your head!"

      "Upon my head. Just imagine, a globe of crystal, gilded all over, the lower part beautifully incrusted, perfumes burning at the top, and jets from which flame issued when they were lighted."

      "I quite understand; but they were not lighted at the time, I suppose?"

      "Happily not, or I should have been set on fire."

      "And you were only knocked down flat, instead?"

      "Not at all."

      "How, not at all?"

      "Why the luster fell on my skull. It appears that we have upon the top of our heads an exceedingly thick crust."

      "Who told you that, Porthos?"

      "The doctor. A sort of dome which would bear Notre-Dame, at Paris."

      "Bah!"

      "Yes, it seems that our skulls are made in that manner."

      "Speak for yourself, my dear fellow, it is your own skull that is made in that manner, and not the skulls of other people."

      "Well, that may be so," said Porthos, conceitedly, "so much, however, was that the case, in my instance, that no soon did the luster fall upon the dome which we have at the top of our head, than there was a report like a cannon, the crystal was broken to pieces, and I fell, covered from head to foot."

      "With blood, poor Porthos!"

      "Not at all; with perfumes, which smelled like rich creams; it was delicious, but the odor was too strong, and I felt quite giddy from it; perhaps you have experienced it sometimes yourself, D'Artagnan?"

      "Yes, in inhaling the scent of the lily of the valley; so that, my poor friend, you were knocked over by the shock and overpowered by the odor?"

      "Yes; but what is very remarkable, for the doctor told me he had never seen anything like it—"

      "You had a bump on your head, I suppose?" interrupted D'Artagnan.

      "I had five."

      "Why five?"

      "I will tell you; the luster had, at its lower extremity, five gilt ornaments, excessively sharp."

      "Oh!"

      "Well, these five ornaments penetrated my hair, which, as you see, I wear very thick."

      "Fortunately so."

      "And they made a mark on my skin. But just notice the singularity of it, these things seem really only to happen to me! Instead of making indentations, they made bumps. The doctor could never succeed in explaining that to me satisfactorily."

      "Well, then, I will explain it to you."

      "You will do me a great service if you will," said Porthos, winking his eyes, which, with him, was a sign of profoundest attention.

      "Since you have been employing your brain in studies of an exalted character, in important calculations, and so on, the head has gained a certain advantage, so that your head is now too full of science."

      "Do you think so?"

      "I am sure of it. The result is, that, instead of allowing any foreign matter to penetrate the interior of the head, your bony box or skull, which is already too full, avails itself of the openings which are made in it, allowing this excess to escape."

      "Ah!" said Porthos, to whom this explanation appeared clearer than that of the doctor.

      "The five protuberances, caused by the five ornaments of the luster, must certainly have been scientific masses, brought to the surface by the force of circumstances."

      "In fact," said Porthos, "the real truth is, that I felt far worse outside my head than inside. I will even confess, that when I put my hat upon my head, clapping it on my head with that graceful energy which we gentlemen of the sword possess, if my fist was not very gently applied, I experienced the most painful sensations."

      "I quite believe you, Porthos."

      "Therefore, my friend," said the giant, "M. Fouquet decided, seeing how slightly-built the house was, to give me another lodging, and so they brought me here."

      "It is the private park, I think, is it not?"

      "Yes."

      "Where the rendezvous are made: that park, indeed, which is so celebrated in some of those mysterious stories about the surintendant."

      "I don't know; I have had no rendezvous or heard mysterious stories myself, but they have authorized me to exercise my muscles, and I take advantage of the permission by rooting up some of the trees."

      "What for?"

      "To keep my hand in, and also to take some bird's-nests; I find that more convenient than climbing up the trees."

      "You are as pastoral as Tircis, my dear Porthos."

      "Yes, I like the small eggs; I like them very much better than larger ones. You have no idea how delicate an omelette is, if made of four or five hundred eggs of linnets, chaffinches, starlings, blackbirds and thrushes."

      "But five hundred eggs is perfectly monstrous!"

      "A salad-bowl will hold them easily enough," said Porthos.

      D'Artagnan looked at Porthos admiringly for full five minutes, as if he had seen him for the first time, while Porthos spread himself out joyously and proudly. They remained in this state several minutes, Porthos smiling, and D'Artagnan looking at him. D'Artagnan was evidently trying to give the conversation a new turn. "Do you amuse yourself much here, Porthos?" he asked, at last, very likely after he had found out what he was searching for.

      "Not always."

      "I can imagine that; but when you get thoroughly bored, by-and-by, what do you intend to do?"

      "Oh! I shall not be here for any length of time. Aramis is waiting until the last bump on my head disappears, in order to present me to the king, who I am told cannot endure the sight of a bump."

      "Aramis is still in Paris, then?"

      "No."

      "Whereabouts is he, then?"

      "At Fontainebleau."

      "Alone?"

      "With M. Fouquet."

      "Very good. But do you happen to know one thing?"

      "No, tell it me, and then I shall know."

      "Well, then, I think that Aramis is forgetting you."

      "Do you really think so?"

      "Yes; for at Fontainebleau yonder, you must know, they are laughing, dancing, banqueting and drawing the corks of M. de Mazarin's wine in fine style. Are you aware that they have a ballet every evening there?"

      "The deuce they have!"

      "I assure you that your dear Aramis is forgetting you."

      "Well,

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